Starman
by Agar
Summary: Vincent is stuck in the past with no hope for a future. Just when he thinks life isn't worth living, he finds himself on yet another quest to save the world...only this time it's a totally different planet. LotR/FF7 x-over Vincent/Boromir SLASH
1. Author's Notes

_"Starman" _

_by Agar_

**Rating**: M, for SLASH/YAOI (this story contains a homosexual pairing, which will be central to the plot) violence, some gore, attempted suicide, and some language.

**Summary**: While the heros of Gaia enjoy their Happily Ever After, Vincent is stuck in the past with no hope for a future. Just when he thinks life isn't worth living, he suddenly finds himself in the middle of yet another quest to save the world...only this time it's a totally different planet, filled with matchmaking dwarves, dragons that act like dogs, and one human who refuses to leave Vincent alone. LotR/FF7 x-over. Vincent/Boromir slash.

**Disclaimer**: "The Lord of the Rings" and all related titles belong to J. R. R. Tolkien, New Line Cinema, and various publishers that are not me. "Final Fantasy VII" and all related titles belong to SquareEnix, or whatever they're calling themselves these days. Additional disclaimers pertaining to each chapter will be in the Author's Notes at the bottom of each chapter. The song "Starman" belongs to David Bowie. (Lyrics often inspire me, and I thought it would be fun to use a song that's over 30 years old because Vincent was stuck in a coffin for 30 years. David Bowie would have been the music of his generation, and a large part of Vincent's character is his inability to let go of the past.)

* * *

Hi everyone! Thanks for clicking on my fic. Sorry it's just the introduction, but I wanted to get all this information out of the way. The first part will be up by the end of the month, but then I have no idea how things will go. Might as well warn you all ahead of time I'm typically slow to post, but I already have some chapters finished, which should help.

I always said I would _never_ write a Lord of the Rings fic, because I knew if I did it would end up spanning all 3 books and be absolutely HUGE. Yet here I am doing exactly that (although if you want to be picky it's a crossover...). I'm terrible at finishing fanfics, but I have a good feeling about this one. I'm really enjoying writing it. Plus, I have a brand spakin' new laptop with nice current software, which solves my previous technical problems with uploading documents to .

I blame all of this on Magic Rat for inspiring me with her fabulous Lord of the Rings and Final Fantasy VII fanfiction. You got me back into the fandoms, you devious little rodent.

Lastly, a big thank you to Phuq and Lady-Bloodrose for letting me rant about this fic and bounce ideas off your brains. Half the plot wouldn't be there if it weren't for you guys.

- Agar


	2. Prologue

_"Starman"_

_by Agar_

* * *

**Prologue**

Vincent Valentine couldn't pinpoint the moment when he realized he was falling for Cid Highwind. Rather, it was a gradual build up of warmth and affection, until the teasing nicknames no longer bothered him and he found himself enjoying the casual touches they shared. Cid was a big fan of the manly, one-arm-over-the shoulder hug, but lately they had given Vincent butterflies in his stomach.

He should have been shocked or disturbed, but more than anything he was confused. Why Cid? Why a man? He was 99% certain he was straight. Though no one had noticed, upon meeting Tifa he'd had the typical straight male reaction of being absolutely unable to look at her face at all. Plus, he had a history of heterosexual relationships and couldn't recall ever looking at a man and thinking, "I'd do him." But then again, his memories from _Before_ were a bit hazy at times. Or maybe Lucrecia had soured any future love for another woman.

Which meant it was something about Cid himself was drew Vincent like a moth to the flame. It definitely wasn't his nicotine addiction or vulgar vocabulary. But honestly, that wasn't fair to Cid; the man had many good qualities. Underneath his rough exterior was a heart of gold, though few ever looked hard enough to see it.

There he goes again, waxing poetic over the man.

When their quest had neared it's end and the last flight was made to the Northern Crater, Vincent had been tempted to pull Cid aside and quietly confess his feelings. Maybe not even the whole truth, but a diluted, easier to swallow version, like "I care for you very much," or "I've grown to respect you, Cid." Then kiss the bastard to show exactly what kind of "respect" he meant.

Instead, he spewed out some cliched drivel about "friendship" and "comrades in arms" that was only a pale imitation of what Vincent truly wanted to say. He'd barely heard the words coming out of his mouth, only aware of how stupid and ashamed of himself he felt for being such a damn coward. He wanted so very much to be brave in front of Cid, but in the end the fear of rejection held his tongue. At least in ignorance he could pretend that Cid wasn't disgusted by him, and that maybe, MAYBE the hugs meant more than just brotherly affection.

Oblivious to Vincent's inner conflict, Cid had scooped him up into one of those painfully good hugs, and mumbled around his cigarette that Vincent would always be his favorite blood-sucker. Hidden behind the collar of his cloak, Cid didn't see the agony flash across Vincent's face.

As sincerely grateful for Cid's unwavering friendship as he was, it just wasn't enough. Cid had taught him to feel human again and given him back his ability to love; he hadn't known he could love still.

...Which is why when word reached him some two years later that Cid had proposed to Shera, Vincent had taken the news like a second shot through the chest. His breathe caught in his throat, his knees went weak, and his un-dead heart had refused to beat. Then everything went black.

The next morning he woke up some 70 miles away in the Ancient Forest, covered in dried gore, and the metallic taste of monster blood in his mouth. Galian Beast had overtaken him in the creature's fit of rage and taken it out on every living thing in its path. Long before Vincent realized his attraction to Cid, Galian has selected the pilot as a suitable mate, and the loss was traumatic. Considering the beast's possessive and aggressive temperament, Shera was lucky it wasn't her blood he was gagging on.

He knew he shouldn't have been surprised. Realistically, he hadn't expected the loudmouthed, brash pilot to be gay, or even bisexual, but his engagement was still a bitter pill to swallow. Galian Beast still howled in his head, and the other demons kept a healthy distance.

Cid would be happy with Shera, he knew. Obviously, since they liked each other enough to get married. She was a hard working, eager to please, intelligent woman who had known Cid for years. She probably knew all kinds of little things about him, he thought bitterly, like his favorite foods and how to cook them. What brand of soap to buy for him. If he wore boxers of briefs, though Vincent actually knew that, too, having been on the road with him. Although it was usually one of the girls who did the group's laundry, Vincent had been voted the male least likely to do anything perverted with their panties, and thus had been added into the rotation. Funny, since Cloud was probably the gay one, and Vincent wasn't above enjoying a basket full of Tifa's lacy 34D bras (not that he'd deliberately checked the tag, but he couldn't help but notice). THAT had certainly gotten him some envious looks at the Laundromat. Little did they know it was a certain pair of navy boxer briefs he was more embarrassed to handle.

He sighed, disgusted with himself. He couldn't stop thinking about the man. How pathetic.

He'd eyed the wedding invitation like it was a cyanide pill he was considering swallowing. It was obviously Shera's work, an ivory vellum card with gold embossed lettering announcing the date, though Cid had handwritten "You better show up!" below in grease pencil. Guilt twisted his gut, because even as he opened the envelope he'd been planning how to explain his absence. So out of either a sense of duty to Cid or because he was a glutton for punishment, Vincent had gone to the wedding.

As far as he knew, Cid was the only one who knew he'd attended the wedding. It had been held on the air field outside of Rocket Town, next to Cid's aircraft hanger. The weather had been beautiful, bright and warm with a cool breeze. The summer wild flowers were in bloom, and the scent of lavender perfumed the clearing. In its center was a raised dais; the altar, draped in cloth and flowers. Around it guests milled around, Cid among them speaking with Cloud and Tifa. Though uncomfortable in his formal wear, Cid had never looked more handsome, impeccable in his black suit, pale blue shirt, and white bow-tie. For once, there was not a spot of grease on him.

Far from the festivities, on the edge of the field was an old, sweet smelling cedar tree that Vincent chose as his perch. From his vantage point in its branches he could observe the proceedings while keeping his distance. In that position, Vincent had been downwind, and the air carried the voices of his friends to him. Amid the congratulations and fond reunions could be heard speculation over whether he'd show or not. Cid had scolded each of them, particularly Yuffie, insisting he would come. Vincent was glad he did, though he could not bring himself to leave the shelter of the forest. A wedding was supposed to be a happy occasion, and Vincent was anything but happy.

Cid had delayed the ceremony as long as he could before Tifa had gently persuaded him to let the priest begin, Vincent or no Vincent. Reluctantly he made his way to the altar, though all trace of it disappeared from his face when Shera appeared, resplendent in her white and cream wedding dress. His eyes had lit up, and Vincent could see in painful clarity the love and awe he held for her, and Vincent knew Cid would never look at anyone else like that again. Any selfish fantasies he might have harbored about seducing Cid away from Shera crumbled to ash, and Vincent felt something fragile inside him break.

In his bitterness, the priest's words flew past him, until the words "I do" found his ears, and the now married couple kissed. Applause and cheers drowned out the one hitched sob that escaped his throat, before he ruthlessly choked back the tears that threatened to fall. He cursed himself for being so selfish; Cid was happy, and that was what mattered.

An undetermined amount of time passed. Vincent was still as a statue, the words "I do" looping in his head. He closed his eyes to shut out reality, but then the kiss replayed on the inside of his eyelids like a movie screen. He felt dizzy.

Distracted, he didn't notice the human coming closer, but when a voice called his name he jerked to attention. Cid was running across the field, grinning and holding a small box. He skidded to a stop at the base of the tree, huffing. "I knew you'd come!" He held up the tupperware like a peace offering. "I brought cake. It's lemon."

Vincent leapt to the ground and smiled at Cid from behind his collar. "Thank you."

Cid sat down on a fallen tree branch big enough to serve as a bench. "C'mon, sit down and have a bite. I brought enough for two, so we can share." He dug out two forks from his pocket and handed one to Vincent. When Vincent made no move to sit, he frowned.

"What's wrong? Don't worry, it's not my cooking!" He laughed at his own joke, and despite himself Vincent smiled. It has been a well known fact to Cloud and the others that Cid should only do the cooking if it involved meat on a stick. Otherwise, the man could barely be trusted to make his own tea.

Vincent shook his head. "Nothing. I'm just not very hungry."

Cid gasped theatrically. "Not even for wedding cake? Bullshit, here—" and he yanked Vincent down next to him by his arm and shoved a forkful of cake in Vincent's face. "Open up!"

Even as Vincent's mouth dropped open instinctually, he grimaced. Cid should be feeding his bride, not him. Wasn't that what newlyweds did at the reception? Almost against his will, he chewed the cake and swallowed, belatedly noticing that it tasted wonderful. His eyes widened. "It's good."

"'Course it's good! It had better be fucking _divine_ for what we paid for it," he said, taking a big mouthful. "I already had a bite earlier, but now I can dig in and make a mess without Shera nagging me over talking with my mouth full."

Vincent rolled his eyes. "Pass that cake over."

* * *

That afternoon became both one of the happiest and saddest of Vincent's life since awaking. Cid and he spent the next two hours in each other company, though Vincent felt guilty for keeping Cid from his new bride. When he mentioned it, Cid waved away his concerns. "She ain't going anywhere. She's stuck with me now! I'll see her tonight, sweep her off her feet and all that romantic shit."

Vincent should have protested, but he let the issue drop, because if he was perfectly honest with himself he didn't want Cid to ever go.

It was taken out of his hands when Tifa's angry voice cut across the clearing.

"Cid Highwind, don't you dare get drunk and miss your wedding night! If Shera divorces you you'll deserve it!"

Cid growled. "Why do women always gang up against men in packs?! They're like fuckin' wolves." He cupped his hand to his mouth and yelled in her direction. "Hang on to your granny panties, woman! I'll be there in a minute! Sheesh..."

Vincent abruptly stood up, wrapping his arms around himself protectively. Despite the warmth of the day, he felt ice cold: his pulse had yet to return. "You should go."

"Yeah, yeah. Guess I'll see ya before we leave for the honeymoon." He eyed the other man suspiciously. "You're not gonna disappear on me again, are ya?"

When Vincent couldn't meet his eyes, Cid scowled. "Dammit, Vincent! You did this after Meteor and after those clones! I'm not letting you run away this time."

Shrinking in on himself, Vincent felt bile burn the back of his throat. God, this _hurt_, but he had to do it. Cid was moving on in his life, and in no way did it include him. He should never have come today. "It's better this way, Cid," he said softly.

It was worth a try, but he should have known Cid wouldn't accept that as an answer. Cid latched onto Vincent's human arm with an iron grip and got right in the taller man's face to yell at him properly. "The fuck it is! How is leaving your friend and disappearing to God knows where better?!"

With nowhere else to look, Vincent watched Cid's face twist with emotion. His lips were pulled back into a snarl and his cheeks were flushed in anger. His eyes, just a shade darker than the sky, were ablaze. Dressed to the nines and practically shaking with the strength of his fury, Vincent thought the man had never looked more beautiful than at that moment. Without thinking, he leaned down to press an open mouthed kiss to Cid's lips, and moaned when he tasted lemon cream.

Then his mind processed what he'd just done, and Vincent jerked out of Cid's grasp like he'd been hit. "I shouldn't have done that," he blurted.

"Damn right you shouldn't have! I'm a married man, ya know!" Cid ran his hand through his hair in a nervous gesture. "Jesus, what was that about?"

"I thought that would be obvious." Vincent tried not to sound bitter and failed.

"Well it ain't! So tell me what the fuck is going on with you!" Cid's glare was lost on Vincent, whose face was hidden by a veil of dark hair. Frustrated, he grabbed onto Vincent's shoulder and shook him roughly. "Hey, answer me!"

Though Vincent kept silent, Cid got his answer when one particularly forceful shake dislodged the hair from Vincent's face. It was blotchy and wet with tears. The significance hit Cid like a runaway train and he let go of Vincent like he'd been burnt. "Oh, Vince... I'm sorry. God. Shit. I didn't know."

"You weren't supposed to," Vincent said, his voice husky. He let his hair fall back into place, hiding him from Cid's pitying gaze.

"Hey, Vin...I shouldn't have yelled at ya. I'm shit with this kind of stuff," Cid admitted, apologetic.

"You're not mad?"

"God, no! ...But I'm kinda freakin' out. I mean, my best friend just kissed me!" Cid shook his head, still in shock. How could he have not known? Of all of Avalanche, Cid had battled, roomed, and spoken with Vincent more than anyone else, and yet he'd managed to completely miss the fact that he was in love with him. What if he'd felt that way since Meteor? Good god, could Vincent have suffered in silence that long? His horror at the possibility must have shown on his his face, because Vincent, who'd only ever experienced rejection and abuse in return for his love, seemed to crumble.

"I'm sorry. This is supposed to be the happiest day of your life and I'm ruining it. I'll leave you be." The edges of his cloak started waver like a mirage, and Cid realized Vincent was calling on his demon's ability to let him fade into shadows.

"Vincent, wait!" He lunged to prevent his closest friend's escape. There was the sound of cloth tearing, and then Vincent was gone. He'd vanished into the woods like a wraith, and Cid was left holding a tattered scrap of red fabric.

* * *

By nightfall Vincent had crossed the distance to the Crystal Cave, aided by Galian's ground-eating strides. Though it was the height of summer, the mountain path was cold and windy, and the chill penetrated Galian Beast's thick fur. Inside at least was sheltered from the wind, and further in the mountain the temperature rose to something resembling comfort. Vincent's destination was so deep that the howling wind outside was silenced. It was here, in the quiet and the dark, that Lucrecia's corpse resided in a coffin of crystalized mako.

Vincent sat with his back to the wall, his knees pulled up under his chin, and stared at the hypnotic glow of his begone beloved. Her solemn presence, like a marble angel, was comforting, and whenever life became painful he retreated to her. Lately, it felt like he'd scarcely been able to keep away.

The first few times he had traveled to Lucrecia's cave had been to ask forgiveness. There was so much to be sorry for and regretted never telling her. He'd always been a little shy, and a woman as beautiful and intelligent as her was intimidating to any man. Now, with time and death separating them, and there was no reason to hold back.

As the months passed and he continued to make the pilgrimage, he exhausted his apologizes. Instead, he told her about the friends he'd made while saving the world, specifically the handsome pilot that had unintentionally captured his heart. His unrequited love for Cid became his favorite topic, as painful as it was. It felt cathartic to unburden himself to her. In the rare instances he spoke, she'd always been a good listener. Vincent wondered if she would understand his newfound love for a man.

Sometimes when he visited he bought her flowers, just a single bloom he'd pick while walking, to lay at her feet. Strangely, they always took twice as long as other flowers to wilt. Vincent liked to think that it was a sign that she was still out there in some form.

Today, Vincent had no news or flowers. Rather, he sat watching Lucretia float suspended in her mako prison and let his thoughts drift over past sins.

What was left to say? He'd already apologized countless times, sobbing out his confessions like she could absolve him of all wrongdoings. His guilt had festered like an infection over the years, and upon emerging from his thirty years sleep was only worse when he discovered the far reaching consequences of his inaction. Had he only been strong enough, none of this would have happened. No super human mad men, no clones, no Geostigma, no Crisis. If only he'd stopped Hojo when he'd had the chance; if only he'd loved Lucrecia enough to save her; if only he'd spirited baby Sephiroth away when his mother could no longer shield him from Hojo's designs.

Cid had always thought Vincent, with his demon forms and talent for marksmanship, was strong. But Vincent felt very weak.

Now, at least, his supposed strength was no longer needed. The last of the Jenova cells were gone, and Hojo's greatest experiment had finally come to an end. Cloud and himself were all that remained, the last surviving specimens, so drastically altered the Vincent wondered if there was anything they _couldn't_ survive. After all, he himself had endured the ravages of the most relentless killer of all: time. Thirty years spent in a coffin, without food or drink, and he'd emerged unchanged looking 27 years old. Frozen in time at the moment Hojo had gunned him down.

'_Just like Lucrecia,_' he thought. The mako had perfectly persevered her body. Even in death, her lips were red and her cheeks a healthy pink. Vincent imagined that if he removed her from the materia, she'd be warm to the touch.

Not like him. He hadn't been warm in a while, ever since his heart stopped beating a few weeks ago. He hoped it started again soon. He was tired of feeling cold.

Lately, he'd been tired of a lot of things. Like being alone. Or listening to his demons fight. Or being a freakish aberration of nature who could live without a heartbeat.

Honestly, he was just tired of existing.

He felt worn down, wrung out. Day after day, watching the world march on without him. What was left for him? Hojo was dead. Sephiroth was dead. Lucrecia was dead, and Cid was lost to him. There was no one left.

Disturbed by the direction his thoughts had taken, he stood up and returned the way he came. Lucrecia's silent presence was no longer comforting.

He knew he was running away; knew, but didn't care. Putting distance between himself and her didn't make his problems any lesser, but it _felt_ like it did. She was a constant reminder of all his failures, and 'out of sight, out of mind.'

All he needed to do was putting one foot in front of the other, and everything would go away.

It was fitting, then, that as he neared the entrance to the cave, he passed the fork in the path he'd never bothered to explore before. It was little more than a long crack, just wide enough for a man to squeeze through, but it went farther than Vincent's supernatural night vision could see.

This time he crawled though, and took the road less traveled.

It could have been a hundred yards or a hundred miles. There was no telling it's length, but Vincent gamely kept going, sometimes ducking a low ceiling, sometimes turning sideways when the walls narrowed. The floor began to slope downward, then more steeply as the tunnel delved deeper into the heart of the mountain. Vincent had never felt the need to venture further than Lucrecia's body, but now he realized the extent of the cave network.

His eyes were adapting to the total blackness, because he'd stopped catching the toes of his boots on cracks. At least, that's what he thought was happening when he started to make out the details on the rock face, but as the cave curved to his right he realized there was a faint light up ahead. As the it took on a distinctly green hue, a suspicion grew in his mind, one that was confirmed when he rounded the bend.

Before him was a dead end; the tunnel ended in a large fissure as tall as Vincent and many times wider. It looked as though the stone had split by a blow from a giant hammer, like Odin himself had deceased from Valhalla to cleave the mountain in twain from the inside. Seeping from the crevasse came the source of the light: a seething pool of mako several stories below.

Even standing several feet away, he feel the chill emanating from it. A memory flashed across his consciousness: the cold and the dark reminded him sharply of the coffin in the ShinRa basement. The desire to return gnawed at him, not because he 'd liked his imprisonment, but because he missed the peaceful sleep it offered.

The answer hit him so suddenly it was a wonder he didn't gasp aloud. Though he tried to brush it aside, the idea was too tempting, too insidious to leave him be.

Like Lucretia, the solution to all his problem lay in the mako. Death, but not quite, and certainly more authentic that his current un-dead state of being. Though his body would remain, the mako would erase his consciousness, leaving him an empty shell. Washed away by the tide of the Lifestream, his soul would be reabsorbed into the Planet. Peaceful oblivion. The Jenova cells infecting his body would not allow him to truly die, but it was as close as he would ever come.

Suicide. It was the coward's way out, and his Turk pride balked at the idea. Suicide, in Vincent's mind, could only be justified in a rare number of situations, and this was none of them. This was no noble sacrifice for the greater good (_'Aeris...'_) or Wutainese warrior's hari-kiri. There was nothing noble and nothing dignified about it, but Vincent couldn't bring himself to care. He was in too much pain too concentrate on anything except ending it.

It wasn't just emotion suffering. There was a leaden, heavy feeling, a literal ache in his chest centered in his heart. '_A broken heart_,' he thought._ 'How appropriate_.'

Though his dark nature might suggest otherwise, he'd never felt seriously suicidal (though it was arguable that being a Turk was suicidal in and of itself). Even as a teen, he'd been depressed, but never self-destructive. His friends in Avalanche would be very surprised to learn that Vincent, although quiet, had once been adventurous, flirtatious, and very much in love with life, which is why Hojo's experimentations had left him such a desperate wreck. Suddenly the handsome, confident Turk he had been was 30 years in the future, with no friends or family to speak of. Everything he'd known and loved was gone, leaving him very alone. And to make a bad situation worse, he'd become a stranger in his own body: his hair, once short and neatly combed, was long and matted, and his always light complexion had faded to corpse white. But the worse was his arm. Where once was a flesh and blood limb was now a wicked metal claw. It had been the most horrifying change, and it took several months for him to work up the courage to see if anything was underneath. Thankfully, a few minutes alone with Cid's tool kit had revealed that Hojo had not amputated the limb, but the sockets and wires embedded in his skin had made him feel monstrous. Ironically, it was the monsters he hosted that were the least disturbing. After all, he'd spent 30 years in a box with only their company. He'd grown accustomed to their presence.

To distract himself from the trauma, Vincent had devoted himself to Avalanche's cause. Most days he was too exhausted from traveling and fighting to even think about anything beyond stopping Hojo. But now, with no mission to occupy his time, Vincent was free to evaluate his life in excruciating detail. What he found was distressing.

Why not commit suicide? What did he have left to live for? Very little as far as he could tell.

He winced. That wasn't entirely true. There was Cid, and though the chance at romance was gone, the man was still his best friend. Vincent knew his death would wound him deeply, but he hoped that Cid would understand.

Months from now, when it was evident that Vincent was gone, would Cid leave his new bride behind to go looking for him, he wondered? No doubt he'd scour every corner of Gaia in the _Shera_; he was certainly stubborn enough. Maybe one day he'd even locate Vincent's body, wherever the Lifestream saw fit to deposit it. How ironic if it was the same cave as Lucrecia.

He stepped forward until the brass tips of his boots hung over the edge. Was this was she had done? Thrown herself upon the mercy of the Lifestream like Juliet onto the knife? Had she stood in this very spot and deliberated how best to cease her existence? The thought was comforting, and he realized that in a way they would finally be together: her, him, and her son, all in their crystal tomb. A family at last.

For the first time in a long time, a genuine smile crossed his face. His life, both before Hojo's alterations and after, had been one of loss and suffering; perhaps he'd be luckier in death?

He took the last step, and the ground fell out from under him. Perhaps recognizing his imminent death, a switch was thrown in his brain, and his perception of time shifted. Time slowed to a crawl, an anomaly he'd experienced only once before at the moment of his murder. Just as it had then, the fall seemed to last forever.

As he watched the pulsating mako below him inch closer, he wondered if this was the part where his life is supposed to flash before his eyes. He hoped not.

Then suddenly the mako was rushing towards him, and he impacted with stinging cold. The last thing he was aware of was a sea of green.

* * *

A/N: "a sea of green" : similar to the sea of holes and other such places traveled by The Beatles in a brightly colored submersible. Vincent's subconscious is a 30 years out of date acid trip.

I am a horrible person! There is no good reason why this took to long to finish. Except, of course accidentally taking 22 credit hours at once this spring, a two week field studies trip to Hawaii, a family wedding, and my long term boyfriend and I separating. O.O Holy crap, things have been crazy! But I still should have gotten off my ass and finished this earlier. I hope it was worth the wait.

I tried not to make Vincent too weepy, but I wanted to drive home his suffering. He's a profoundly depressed person, but is very private and introverted. Since this is kinda 1st person POV, he may seem OOC because we're looking inside his head and seeing all the stuff he never, ever talks about.


	3. The Man Who Fell To Middle Earth

_"Starman"_

_by Merytsetesh_

* * *

**Chapter 1. The Man Who Fell To Middle-earth**

Awareness came with all the subtlety of a bucket of cold water. Vincent lurched awake, and would have surely rolled over to the ease the discomfort from the hard lump digging into his spine if his Turk training hadn't drilled into him not to. He was in an unfamiliar place and couldn't know what enemies were waiting for him to draw attention to himself.

Holding perfectly still, he reached out with his enhanced senses and listened for the sounds of nearby people or monsters. There was silence, except for the echo of dripping of water, and when one icy drop landed dead on the tip of his nose he realized what had woken him. He wiped it away with a glove.

Pushing himself upright, he opened his eyes to darkness and blinked rapidly to clear his sight. Gradually, his sensitive night vision began to make out the faintest of jagged shapes in the darkness, and he realized he was in a large cavern of some kind.

His first thought was that he had fallen asleep in Lucrecia's cave, but even at it's furthest point thin veins of mako ran deeply in the rock, illuminating the tunnels with it's sickly green light. The mental image of the mako triggered his memory, and he recalled finding the fresh well of Lifestream oozing out of the earth like puss from an open wound. He'd stepped into it.

_'Stupid, stupid, stupid!'_

But he hadn't been thinking clearly at the time. In a fit of apathy and melodramatics, he'd convinced himself that his sins had finally been atoned for, his debt to Lucrecia and the Planet paid. Lacking any purpose left in life, he'd let the Lifestream take him.

He snorted, the sound abnormally loud in the cave. Apparently it had spit him back out, though he'd be damned if he knew where. Perhaps his continued existence still had meaning. Or maybe the Ancients just didn't want an un-dead Turk with four demonic roommates living in his head to come dirty up their nice clean afterlife.

Regardless of just why he was here, the fact was that he was stuck at an unknown location that may very well be miles away from anything. At least he had a source of water. Taking a quick look around, he saw a small depression of crystal clear water beside him. Presumable this was where the water that had been dripping on his face had been falling for the past hundred years, eroding away the soft minerals to form a shallow pool. He bent over to press his lips directly to the surface and drank greedily, the cool water invigorating. It had the faint aftertaste of dissolved calcium and oxidized iron.

His thirst sated, he assessed his equipment. Cerberus was in it's holster, and there was the reassuring weight of plenty of ammunition in his pockets. A quick examination showed that it was no worse off after it's dip into the Lifestream. His gauntlet, if anything, looked cleaner, some of the accumulated monster guts flushed out of it's articulate joints. For his own piece of mind he would still thoroughly dismantle and oil both the firearm and gauntlet at the first opportunity, though.

Checking his materia, he found less than he wold have liked. Three green, a Restore, Bolt, and Fire, only two of which were fully mastered. He wished he had a Heal with him, since his medical supplies were next to nonexistent, but he would make due. A blue support materia would have been appreciated, too. There was a red summon materia which gave Vincent the impression of barely restrained power and reptilian instincts: Bahamut, a summons he had always gotten along nicely with. The dragon god's presence was comforting. Last were a yellow Sense and a purple Preemptive materia, which could prove to be a useful combination in helping to prevent nasty surprises. Right away he slotted the the Sense, Preemp, and after a moment's consideration the unmastered Bolt. He would have preferred the stronger Fire, but burning up your oxygen in a cave was never a good idea, regardless of his scientifically engineered ability to survive without it for ungodly periods of time. He winced.

Aside from his weapons, Vincent carried little with him. Stuffed in one pocket were some Gil notes he'd forgotten about after collecting the bounty on some monster stupid enough to attack him. It would be useful if he reached civilization before he has to use it as tinder. A small coil of rope, a battered Shinra issue canteen, and a half-eaten energy bar completed his inventory.

As Veld would have said, he was so screwed.

Of course, he hadn't been preparing for a backpacking expedition when he'd went to visit Lucrecia. It was only half a day's hike to get there. And he certainly hadn't expected to live past his rather impulsive suicide attempt, much less wake up in a totally different cave. Obviously, the gods hated him.

Sighing, he opened his canteen and filled it from the pool he'd just drunk from. There was no telling how frequently he'd come across such lucky finds once he began walking.

* * *

Vincent's circadian rhythm told him that nearly a day had passed before he stopped to make camp. As he walked he noticed that the cave tunnel was too perfect to be natural, and his suspicions where confirmed when he spotted support beams further in. His cave was actually an old mine shaft, though it had clearly been abandoned some years ago. The tunnel roof was painfully short, and many times Vincent was forced to bend awkwardly before the path abruptly widened again. He wondered how anyone could work in such a small space.

Where he found himself settling for the 'night' was an old three-way intersection of shafts, wide enough and tall enough to be a rather large room even by Vincent's standards. Here and there were old rusted axes and picks whose wooden handles had rotted away. A bucket for carrying supplies had been left in a corner next to a rope that had deteriorated into dust.

Vincent found a small ledge in the rock that might have once been a shelf or a bench for workers to rest on. He cleared off old rags and bits of gravel to make a place to sleep and bunched up his cloak like a pillow. The mine, like all deep underground hollows, was nearly room temperature and slightly humid. He would not be huddling under his cloak for warmth tonight.

He slept to the peaceful white noise of distant water splashing in small pools, and in his dream the sounds became the falling hammers of ghosts.

* * *

Thunk! Thunk-Thunk! Thunk-Thunk!

For the second day, Vincent woke up disoriented. As his dream faded from consciousness, the sounds of hammers did not, instead turning into the footfalls of three people.

"Curse ye Dain, for sending us up here. Knows damn well there is nothing here!"

Another voice, deeper than the first, replied, "Naught but rust and orc dust! Our time would be better spent feeding the forge, not hunting after rumors."

"But if there really _are_ goblins lurking around, then it's our duty to destroy them."

The voices were getting nearer and Vincent could see the faint flicker of torchlight. There was no where to hide. He just hoped they didn't mistake him for a goblin.

"It's not goblin's I'm worried about," said a third, younger sounding man. "Moria had a Balrog! Whose to say we don't have one, too?"

"Dain, that's who! Now quit yer whinin'!"

Letting Chaos cast his cloak of shadow around him, he swept up the sides of the room to clutch the roof. He dug his gauntlet and sharp-toed boots into the rock face, hoping no one thought to look up. He gripped the edge of his cloak in his teeth to keep it from hanging loose, grimacing at the taste. Shit, that thing was filthy. _'Gross.'_

With his back to the tunnel, Vincent couldn't see. Galian perked up, however, and scented the air like a bloodhound. Sweat. Leather. Charcoal. Dried meet, and Vincent felt a pang of hunger in his belly. He hadn't eaten in days, not since Cid's wedding, too depressed to think of eating. Now, with the scent of salted meat nearby, he suddenly remembered the pleasure of a full stomach. Galian whined sadly and Vincent empathized.

Heavy booted feet thumped along the stone, coming to the stop directly below him. The torchlight was faint around him, either from the height of the ceiling or Chaos's tendency to absorb light like a black hole. Still, it would not be enough to hide him if they looked straight at him.

"This is the old Spring pass south of Azanulimbar-Dum. The left shaft is only a furlong, too shallow to hide goblins; we would smell traces of their foul presence by now. But the right is cut long and deep into the rock, another day's travel to it's end chamber. It floods with water in the rainy season, but the land has been dry of late. There could dwell fell creatures," the deep voice said solemnly.

"I say goblins are fell enough!"

"Aye, they're wicked things. But many monsters far worse than goblins feed on their meat. Orcs, trolls, and things that have no name for none have survived to tell of them."

His two companions wisely chose to shut up.

To Vincent's dismay, the group decided that the crossroad was a good place to take a break. They settled onto the shelf Vincent had slept on and had a meal of jerky and alcohol. Ale, judging from it's smell. Vincent's mouth watered.

Ten minutes later they started to pack up, and Vincent mentally breathed a sigh of relief. Although his undead strength could support him in this position for hours, it didn't mean it was comfortable. And his cloak still tasted like everything he'd ever walked through.

Then to his horror, his stomach growled. He twisted his head over his shoulder to see if he'd been spotted, though he already knew the answer.

Three different pairs or eyes stared up at him.

"Balrog!"

They reached for their weapons, but the heavy axes were unsuited for throwing. One had a short crossbow and as he fumbled for arrows Vincent wisely choose to move. Too bad his gauntlet caught in the rock. He jerked to one side, hoping to dislodge it, but the stone held fast. With a cry, he unbalanced and fell smack dab on his would be assailants.

* * *

A/N: There you have it: magic wormhole! I hate using such a cliche plot device, but how else was I going to get Vincent to Middle-earth?

Interestingly enough, caves have long been considered entrances to other realms by various ancient cultures. Central America has several caves the ancient Maya used for rituals, and to this day modern descendants of the Maya revere them as sacred places.


	4. Not-Elf

_"Starman"_

_by Agar_

* * *

**Chapter 2. Not-Elf**

Thorin III, son of Dain II, the King Under the Mountain, looked up just in time to see the red beast come crashing down on him.

"Umph!" The wind was knocked out of the sturdy dwarf, but he still had the wits to grab on to its thick black fur before it could escape. It twisted wildly in his grasp like a snake and he struggled with his other hand to swing his ax. He nearly dropped it in shock when the "beast" turned its pained face towards him to reveal a scraggly, scared looking elf.

Thorin had heard plenty of tales about elves growing up, mostly from his kin who had the misfortune to be imprisoned by King Thranduil, but none of them had ever described an elf like this. Though they often joked about their fickle nature and preoccupation with trees, even the proudest dwarf could agree that the elves had an unearthly beauty. They were tall and thin like the willow tree, but strong as an oak in battle; beardless, forever youthful faces, and in the dark they would shine with the light of their sacred star.

This elf didn't shine. Rather, he was more like a shadow, seeming to suck up the meager light of their mining lamps. His dark hair was matted and hacked off unevenly at the ends, like he'd taken a bush knife to it, and instead of the long braids and jewelry elves liked to clutter their hair with a ragged red scarf kept his bangs out of his eyes. Eyes, Thorin noted, that were not the dark brown he first thought them, but a deep red, like garnets. He'd never heard of any elf, or for that matter _any_ creature, with red eyes. Thorin kept his grip tight on his weapon, not sure if the color was a warning of evil intent or just happenstance.

Tangled in a heap on the ground, the elf certainly didn't look evil. Panicked and struggling for freedom, he was more like a trapped hare, but Thorin knew even a pinned rabbit could deliver a vicious kick with its claws if not handled carefully. Claws, Thorin noted, that this elf seemed to share. Instead of the normal style of metal greaves, the elf was armed with a wicked brass "glove," right down to the articulated fingers. It was a masterpiece of craftsmanship that had Thorin aching to pick the brain of the blacksmith who forged it. Findri, however, had no time to appreciate its beauty, busy as he was avoiding being gutted by the flailing limb. The elf's cloak had caught around his legs, leaving him stuck underneath.

Hafner at least must have come to the same conclusion as he, because he released his hold on the elf and instead grabbed Findri by his collar to drag him to safety. "Tis not a Balrog, you big oaf! If it was we'd already be roasted. It's too tiny."

Not that the elf was tiny by any means. He was long limbed and standing he would no doubt tower over them, easily as tall as any of the Men in Laketown.

Findri, now safe from impalement, righted himself and brandished his maul at the elf. "Could have fooled me with those claws in my face! I thought I was about to get my nose pierced like those barbarians to the far south."

"And it would only be an improvement on your countenance." Hafner snapped back.

"What's an elf doing in a dwarf mine?" Thorin wondered aloud.

"I'm not an elf," said a deep, gravely voice like the onset of an avalanche that could only have come from the elf. Or not-elf, as it were.

"Well you certainly aren't a dwarf!" Findri squinted, finally lowering his maul but keeping it at the ready should the not-elf prove dangerous.. "You could be a Man, I guess."

"What man hangs from the ceiling like a bat?" Thorin countered.

Hafner snorted. "And elves do?"

"Nay, he's too pretty. And no beard, not even scruff!" Findri argued.

Hafner settled the matter. "No elf would be this far in the earth. They are creatures of the forest; under rock and mountain their spirit flickers out like a candle. Which begs the question: who, or perhaps what, are you?" Hafner asked the not-elf, looking him square in his red eyes.

"I am Vincent Valentine."

"Are you an agent of Sauron? Or some other fell creature he has yet to call to his service?" Hafner asked sharply.

But the not-elf, Vincent, did not reach for any weapon, only blinked in apparent confusion. "I am an agent of no one." He said tonelessly. "And last I checked I was human."

Hafner looked at Thorin questioningly. Though technically his elder, Thorin's rank as Dain's son made him his superior. The young prince shrugged. "That's good enough for me." _For now,_ he thought, _though I'll be keeping one eye on you, Mister Valentine. _"Now the real question is, what are you doing skulking around the Iron Hills?"

"I'm lost."

Findri sputtered. "Lost?! What did you do, miss Erebor by a hundred miles?"

"I'm not entirely sure what happened. I was exploring a small cave near the southern split in the Nibelheim Mountains when I...fell into mako fissure. I just woke up two days ago."

Thorin furrowed his brow. "Nibelheim? There are no mountains by that name near here."

"A foreign name, perhaps? Elves and men often have names for places in many different tongues than we speak," Hafner suggested.

Vincent cocked his head to the side in thought. The movement and pose reminded Thorin of the too clever ravens at Erebor. "A friend once told me that Nibelheim means 'place of mist' or 'cloud home' if that means anything to you."

"Then there's you answer! The Misty Mountains. They're riddled with caves. But how you ended up here all the way from Moria is a mystery."

"Well, however you got here," Findri interrupted before they could speculate further, "I'd venture to say you could do with some food and drink, yes?" He reached into his sack and pulled out a parcel of jerky. "Goat meat, dried and seasoned with my family recipe. Best jerky the Iron Hills has to offer!" He handed it and his own flask over.

"Thank you," Vincent said in the same low tone, but he seemed grateful enough for Findri's generosity. He devoured the jerky too quickly to hide his hunger, and drank the ale with a moan at its rich taste.

Though still suspicious, Thorin relaxed a fraction. He'd yet to hear of any evil creature with an appreciation for ale. Blood, perhaps, but not the comfort of a good drink. "I am Thorin, son of Dain, the King Under the Mountain. These are my companions, Hafner and Findri. Come back with us to Azanulimbar-Dum. The archives there have maps of the Iron Hills and Misty Mountains; perhaps they will give you some insight to how you arrived here."

Though the invitation was polite enough, it was not a request. Thorin did not want this strange not-elf wandering free, not when men whispered of shadows spreading from the south. Sauron himself had once worn the guise of an elf to trick the races of Middle Earth into accepting the rings of power. Vincent was as fair as an elf, but beauty could hide a rotten core.

But Thorin's face hide his paranoia, and Vincent nodded his head graciously. "I appreciate your help." He rose to his feet, which were clad in the same brass armor as his arm, and despite expecting it Thorin was still surprised at his height. Though he carried no obvious weapon, standing over them he looked even more menacing, his red cloak falling around his shoulders like wings. An ill omen.

"Right laddie, we'll get you taken care of!" Hafner reached up to slap Vincent on the back. "You look like you could use a rest and a good meal or two! You eat meat, right?"

Thorin did not hear Vincent's answer as Hafner led him and Findri back the way they came. Instead, he looked up at the deep gouges in the rock, carved from armored feet and fingers. Vincent did not need a sword or axe to be dangerous.

* * *

A/N: Oh baby prince Thorin, you have no idea. I am making myself sad every time I type his name, I can't help picturing a different dwarf.

So watching The Hobbit made me want to dust off this old fic, especially now that I have so much new dwarf material! I have a clearer picture of this next chapter, where we will be seeing some familiar bearded faces. I apologize in advance for how long the next chapter will take to post, I update basically when the cosmic forces are right.


End file.
